


Beauty Shot

by Mazarin221b



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, First Time, Kink, M/M, Performance masturbation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-06
Updated: 2011-10-06
Packaged: 2017-10-24 08:38:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,802
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/261323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mazarin221b/pseuds/Mazarin221b
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A fill for this Make Me a Monday Prompt:Sherlock spent some time in/after uni modeling underwear. Over 10 years later, some pictures are unearthed - by Donovan.</p><p>Story summary: Sally discovers some of Sherlock's old modeling pictures - including the ad he did for Calvin Klein back in the 90s. John recognizes that ad, oh, does he ever.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Beauty Shot

“John!” Sally calls as soon as he gets off of the elevator. “Here, come here, I want you to have a look at something!”

Sally looks awfully gleeful for still being in the office at 11 pm so John decides to go, curiosity overwhelming his wariness. Sherlock looks at them askance as he heads toward Lestrade’s office and Sally rolls her eyes; enmity, it seems, is forever.

John shrugs and follows her over toward her desk. Probably another advert for a running group, or a bonsai club.

It isn’t. What he’s looking at are pictures. Quite a few of them, in fact, spread across Sally’s desk. They’re all of the same man, a lean, dark-haired, well built man with close-cropped hair, all modeling Calvin Klein underwear in that famous black and white campaign from the late 90s. The model is never fully facing the camera in almost any shot John can see.

“You will never guess who these are,” she says, snatching one up and fluttering it in front of his face. “My niece is finishing up her graduate work in design and advertising, and she thought she’d do a final project on this campaign, you know, the one that was partly banned, with the kids. Well, she pulls the shots from their archive and sees the model’s name on the back. She remembers me talking about him, and…”

John takes the proffered picture, the model clad only in black boxer briefs that stand out against his pale, smooth skin, a lit cigarette dangling between his fingers. He’s relaxed, leaning against a door frame, but his face is turned away, like he’s looking over his shoulder. There’s something familiar in that long-limbed posture, and when John turns the picture over, he almost drops it. “Sherlock Holmes, 1998” is printed on a label on the top corner.

“No,” he breathes.

“YES!” Sally squeals. “Isn’t it perfect? Greg’s going to be beside himself. These are all him, but from what I can see, CK only used the two shots, the one you have, and, oh…” she digs around for a second, “this one.” Sally hands him another shot, and this one John does recognize, oh, does he ever.

The model (Sherlock, his mind supplies) is standing directly facing the camera, his legs shoulder’s width apart, hands clasped behind his back and his head thrown back with abandon. The strained posture brings the muscles of his biceps and chest into stark relief, neck tendons stretched tight and highlighted by the black and white photography and the white background. The black boxer briefs he’s wearing are fitted and smooth, and John remembers long nights on his very first deployment wondering about just what might be hidden under that tight black fabric.

When he hears Sherlock bellow his name from around the corner, he drops the picture on Sally’s desk and walks to intercept him before Sherlock gets close enough to see what they were looking at. He can hear Sally hastily shoveling the pictures into a folder behind him.

“Ready?” he asks, preempting whatever Sherlock was going to say.

Sherlock quirks a suspicious smile. “Whatever have you been up to?”

“Sally has some plans for Greg’s birthday that she wanted to go over with me, and since hell would freeze over before I could get you to come to the party, I’ll assume you aren’t interested. And no, I’m not telling you anything either, you’d just tell Greg out of spite.” John learned early that the trick to lying successfully to Sherlock involves telling him a truth. Not exactly _the_ truth, but _a_ truth.

Sherlock places a dramatic hand over his heart. “You wound me.”

“No I don’t. Get a cab, would you? It’s starting to rain.”

………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….

It does start to rain, shifting quickly into a chilly downpour. John can barely see the front door of 221B when the cab pulls up, and in the short distance across the pavement he is almost soaked to the skin.

“Augh. Hate wet shirts,” John complains, unbuttoning his and pulling it off on his way toward the bathroom. “Be out in a minute.” John turns to see Sherlock doing the same – undoing the long row of buttons down the front of his smoke-blue shirt and peeling the wet fabric from his skin. When he pulls his undershirt over his head, John can see the echo of the younger model in the length of his torso, the finely muscled stomach, the thin line of hair that disappears into his waistband. John turns quickly and ducks into the bathroom, slamming the door after him.

He turns the water on viciously, spinning the taps until the spray is almost scalding, and steps in with a gasp at the heat on his skin. He really wishes Sally had kept her knowledge to herself.  He was perfectly content in considering Sherlock as a non-sexual being, off- limits completely for anything other than  close camaraderie. Truth is, he’s already gotten past his early attraction, and beyond the occasional intake of breath at Sherlock’s occasional flares into heartstopping beauty, he’s been well content with Sherlock as friend and compatriot.

 But now the Pandora’s Box is open, and seeing evidence of Sherlock’s ability to affect sensuous, erotic grace for the camera was enough to suggest that he is, or he was, a sexual creature.

John feels ridiculous. He really should be able to get over what he’d seen fairly quickly. After all, it was over 10 years ago that he’d kept a page from a magazine folded into his wallet like a guilty kid hiding porn from his mum. But there was something about the strength of the model, the restrained power that marked the lines of his body that captured John’s attention, made his mind spin out a hundred different midnight blue fantasies that kept him awake at night, hard and aching and wanking more than was probably good for him.

John thumps his forehead against the tiles. He absolutely _will not_ wank to the thought of tipping that proud chin down, kissing delectable, plump lips. He _won’t_ caress his ballswhile imagining pulling Sherlock’s arms tight behind his back, kissing his chest, biting the crest of his hip. He _won’t._

He comes with a sharp jerk and a frustrated cry.

……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….

John creeps down to the sitting room the next day, determined to have a cuppa and settle his equilibrium. There is nothing different today than yesterday, nothing he can do or should do to change things.  He’s happy with his life as it is, and his overreaction is probably just a product of his own dry spell. He shakes his head and puts the milk back in the fridge.

John takes his tea out to watch the morning news, but as he looks around the sitting room, cluttered with the detritus of a hundred investigations, half-drunk cups of tea, and stacks of papers and books chest-high, he really thinks he should get out more.

“Morning,” Sherlock yawns from behind him and John jumps.

“Christ, Sherlock, can’t you make a bit of noise?”

Sherlock grins. “Where’s the fun in that? What, you didn’t make me a cup?” Sherlock’s hair is sticking out in big fuzzy ringlets and John’s fingers twitch with the urge to smooth them down.

“Make it yourself, you lazy sod,” John retorts. “What am I, your mum?”

“Hardly.” Sherlock turns around and looks at him carefully. “You all right?”

John rubs a hand across his face. “Yeah. No problem.” He attempts a smile, but God knows how it turns out because Sherlock gives him a bit of a frown.

“What did Sally say to you yesterday? You’ve been acting all…odd.” Sherlock’s eyes narrow and he crosses his arms over his chest in an attempt at one of his more effective weapons - the stare down.

Fortunately John’s built up a tolerance to stare downs, but when the person in question isn’t wearing a shirt, he finds it a bit more difficult. Christ, the curve of his bicep is beautifully defined like this, and John is momentarily captivated by the muscle shifting under creamy skin.  “Perfectly fine,” he says absently, and gets up to go to his room before anything else happens, walking uncomfortably past Sherlock, close enough to smell warm skin that lights his senses with the tantalizing promise that it would taste even better.

He launches himself up the stairs two at a time and guesses he might have 36 hours left before Sherlock figures it out.

……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….

He was wrong. He had about 18 hours.

Sherlock pounds on his door at a little after midnight that night after disappearing for most of the day. He didn’t tell John where he was going and John didn’t ask, figuring if he needed help on a case he’d text him. So he’d puttered about the flat, finished his laundry, read a bit, went for a walk, trying hard to keep Sherlock’s quicksilver smile from his mind and his hands off of his own body.

“Go the hell away!” he shouts. “It’s not important, or you’d already be in here.” God, his head hurts. He’d only finally fallen asleep an hour or so ago, after worrying himself to exhaustion with how he could shake loose his sudden and resurgent awareness of Sherlock, knowing now that he’s seen the shape of him under his clothes. He wonders if he’ll be able to be complacent with that knowledge ever again.

The door swings open and Sherlock is standing there, the light from the hall revealing his body’s silhouette in clean, crisp lines. He’s also not wearing any clothes except for a pair of underwear, and John sits bolt upright against the headboard.

“What in the bloody buggering hell are you doing?” he says, and realizes with skittering panic that he’s trapped, unless he makes a dramatic escape from the window. He’s seriously considering that option when his logical brain catches up with the rest of him and suddenly realizes that there might be a reason Sherlock is almost completely naked, and it might be in his best interests to pay attention.

“Are you quite finished?” Sherlock says, leaning against the door frame.

Oh God. “With what?” he squeaks.

Sherlock saunters into the room to flick on John’s desk light. The warm yellow lamplight reveals that yes, he is naked but for a pair of black hipsters. “With your breakdown. It seems we have a few things to talk about.” Sherlock sprawls dramatically at the end of John’s bed, lying on his side with his head propped on his hand and a long alabaster arm resting lightly down his side and over the dip in his waist.

John swallows heavily. “What could we possibly have to talk about that doesn’t require you wearing trousers?”

“The fact that you’ve learned about a little modeling stint I did right out of University.”

 “And you feel the need to recreate it in my bedroom?”

Sherlock takes a deep breath, and John readies himself for the deductive barrage he knows is on its way. “In a manner of speaking. I wondered what you were so tense about, the constant flick of your eyes away whenever I would look at you. You’ve been staring, obviously, but why so suddenly? Your conversation with Sally is the only thing that has happened in the last two days that might bring this on, as you’ve been in my company nearly the entire week beforehand, so I started there. It took less than 15 minutes in her rather annoying presence today before she took a shot at me for those pictures, which, given one or two of them were published in world-wide circulation, I find petty and mean.”

John shifts a bit, more than a little turned on by the warm wash of Sherlock’s words and a bit indignant at Sally’s teasing on top of that.  Sherlock has nothing to be embarrassed about. _Courage, Watson._ “They’re lovely pictures, Sherlock,” he says quietly.

“-and I was sure she’d shown them to you so I – what did you say?”

John clears his throat, his heart starting to pound so hard he can feel it in his fingertips. “I said that they’re lovely. Your pictures.”

“Oh,” Sherlock breathes. “I thought I was going to have to be much more convincing than that. Hence the lack of trousers.”

John can feel himself edging right up to it but wants absolute certainty before he takes the final leap. “Convincing about what, exactly?” he says, leaning forward a little, just a tiny little bit. So close, it’s so close now; the space between heartbeats is all it would take to tip this over into something almost too exhilarating to contemplate.

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Don’t be so tiresome, John. About you, being attracted to me. And telling you –“

John’s heard enough, seen enough, and he slips the bonds on his own control enough to lean forward to kiss Sherlock’s surprised mouth, just a press against his soft lips. He pulls back but leaves his eyes closed, savoring the slight dampness he can feel on his mouth, tangible evidence of their momentary connection.

“How long did you keep a picture of me?” Sherlock says, and his voice is rough and low.

John opens his eyes. “Long enough it wore holes at the creases. Long enough to memorize the fact you have a mole on your shoulder right here-“  John leans forward to kiss the spot reverently “–and long enough to outgrow it, but not enough to forget.”

“John, I-“

“I was past this, I was, I swear. Then Sally showed me that damn picture and everything I had fantasized about was right there in front of me, and it was _you._ ” John smiles ruefully. “Everything I wanted at once, in the same package. You’re brilliant. And sex on legs. And funny and infuriating, and I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be so obvious, but, well, _look_ at you.”

“You don’t need to apologize. I’m in your bedroom in my underwear; I think that implies a level of reciprocation, wouldn’t you say?” Sherlock slants a smile, then pushes himself up to lean forward and drift a hand over the outline of John’s knee under the blankets.

John smiles, joy blooming in his chest at the nearness, the radiant heat of Sherlock’s body now mingling with his own.  “I think it does,” John says and dissolves the space between them, capturing Sherlock’s lips in a deep, rich kiss that spins a kaleidoscope in his mind and body and heart. Sherlock’s moan is heady, dark, and John pushes his hands under Sherlock’s arms to pull and tug at Sherlock’s body, encouraging him closer.

Sherlock complies languidly, more languid than John feels, folding his limbs over John’s body until he’s kneeling across John’s hips and bending low. John tilts his head up to nose gently at the juncture of Sherlock’s neck and shoulder, flicking his tongue out to catch a little taste.

Sherlock shudders above him, tilting his head to allow better access. “I’ve thought about you,” he murmurs, and arches a little when John hits just the right spot. “I’ve been considering how to approach this for a while. Nothing seemed right. Ah, God, yes, right there, ohhhh…”

John listens but is too intent on mapping the skin under his hands to reply. It’s as if his fingertips have been hardwired into his libido, and every press or stroke ratchets up the tension coiling in his body.  Sherlock would laugh at his fancy, the idea that a mere touch could set him aflame as it does, but oh, how it does. That simple contact lights his senses and he can feel himself grow hard under the blankets.

Sherlock must see something -there’s a sudden awareness in his expression, a smug knowing smile that is one of the sexiest things John’s seen. Sherlock skims his hands down John’s shoulders to pull the blankets away from John’s body, kicking them off of the bed completely before reaching for John’s shirt. He pulls it up and off and flings it across the room before settling again, slotting his hips against John’s with a sensuous wiggle. He wraps his arms around John’s shoulders and pulls John in to kiss him, teasing the corners of his mouth, nipping at his lips in quick little pecks until he dives back in for a proper kiss.

John can feel Sherlock’s hardness along his own and he pushes into it a little, pulling a gasp from Sherlock’s throat. John revels in every sound, every groan, every shuddering breath Sherlock takes when he finally slides his hands into Sherlock’s underwear to fist around his cock and palm his arse, wanting to bring him off right there, to watch him shatter to pieces when he’s close enough that John can taste his breath, count his eyelashes.

“You’re so beautiful, Sherlock,” John whispers, continuing to stroke, pushing his hips up hard into Sherlock’s arse. “I had never seen a man like you; so strong, so sexy. I’d never felt that kind of _want_ before.”

Sherlock wraps his hands around John’s head, tips it back to kiss him desperately, moaning into his mouth as he gets closer and closer to orgasm. John wants him to come, wants to feel the wet evidence of his body’s surrender to pleasure, his surrender to _John_.

Sherlock gasps and tries to push his hands between their bodies to reach for John’s cock. John pulls Sherlock’s hands away, pressing them flat against his chest, and goes straight back to stroking his fist over Sherlock’s cock, his other hand rubbing gently down the crease of Sherlock’s arse.

“Shhh, just let me, first, oh please, let me see you,” he says brokenly, kissing Sherlock’s shoulder. _“Please.”_

Sherlock tips his head down so they’re forehead to forehead, breathing each other’s breath. He skims his nose gently alongside John’s. “Yes,” he says, his breath coming faster in John’s ear until his body starts to tremble. The elation John feels at watching Sherlock’s face as he falls apart almost eclipses his own arousal; that he has done this to the dark angel of his dreams rocks him, takes him to pieces in an earth shattering minute. His own breathing is harsh and hard, his heart racing as Sherlock finally stills and collapses against him, burying his face in John’s neck.

John smiles and presses his hand against Sherlock’s curly hair. He’ll never keep him – dreams are ephemeral, fleeting. But this one is worth the price of future wistful longing, a tenuous grasp on details that fade with time.

“I’m not what you think you see in that picture,” Sherlock mumbles against John’s skin, and softly kisses his neck.

John shivers at Sherlock’s propensity for mind-reading. “I know you aren’t. I could never have imagined your face. Why weren’t any of your pictures with you looking at the camera?”

“Commercial photographers found my gaze…unsettling. They preferred I look away.”  Sherlock slides down John’s body, shifting backward until he can lay his head on John’s thigh and look up at him, his bright eyes almost ethereal in the dim room.

“I think,” John says, and skims his fingertips over Sherlock’s cheekbone, “that’s a damn shame. It’s my favorite part of you. I found the rest of you irresistibly erotic all those years ago, but this is what makes you who you are-and the man I want.”

Sherlock smiles and closes his eyes a moment, then opens them to look directly at John with a heated gaze that stirs John’s arousal, making his cock twitch with interest.

“Then let’s get on with satisfying a little of that want, shall we?” Sherlock says, and starts to pull John’s pajama pants down and off.

John groans when he feels Sherlock’s warm, wet mouth close over his erection. Yes, more than a fantasy come to life; it’s reality in its most perfect form.

But he still might ask Sherlock to frame one of those pictures.

 

 _Epilogue_

When John arrives home a few weeks later in a cool spring evening, there’s a small white cardboard square tacked to the front door. Written in Sherlock’s flowing script is:

 _Go straight to your bedroom._

John rolls his eyes. God knows what Sherlock had done to the sitting room, then. It was probably complete chaos, and he didn’t want John to see it. Which is ridiculous, as John will probably be the one cleaning it up anyway.

He hangs his coat and climbs the stairs as quickly and silently as possible, hoping he can catch Sherlock in whatever it is he’s done. When he gets to the sitting room, however, there’s no evidence of anything wrong, and a quick inspection of the kitchen only shows the usual mess.

John’s stomach suddenly gets a bit fluttery. They’d not been a couple that long, so perhaps…this is how Sherlock summons him to bed? John feels a bit nervous as he climbs the stairs to his room and finds his door closed. He pushes it open slowly and gasps.

Photographs, a hundred of them at least, have been tacked to the walls, and all of the photographs have a very specific theme.

They’re all Sherlock.

Sherlock, dressed and not, posed and candid, all of his professional modeling shots are staring John right in the face, black and white and color. And even more amazingly, many of these have his face in them. One that catches John’s attention immediately is an arresting picture of Sherlock laughing--a candid portrait in closeup, the sun highlighting his hair and brightening his eyes so they shine a clear, iridescent green. Another is a nude, Sherlock in one of his favorite sitting poses with one knee up and his hands wrapped around it, the other leg dangling toward the floor.  His entire body of work, it looks like, plastered all over the walls for John to gaze upon to his heart’s content.

“What do you think?” Sherlock asks from the doorway. He’s wearing well-worn jeans that are getting a little threadbare in the cuffs and a smooth blue tee shirt with the periodic table printed on it. It gives him a charmingly boyish air, and wearing those jeans was so rare John had wondered for a time if he owned any to start with.

“It’s amazing. I had no idea there were so many. And there are plenty of photographers that wanted to capture your face, those gorgeous eyes. I knew there had to be.”

Sherlock walks in and very deliberately closes and locks the door, then sits down in the little chair John keeps in his room. “I would like you to lay on the bed, John,” he says carefully, keeping his eyes locked on John’s.

There’s nothing demanding in his tone but John feels the need to obey anyway. He slowly toes off his shoes and complies, stretching out on his back with his head propped up on the pillows.

Sherlock smiles at him. “Do you see your favorite, John?”

John looks around and finds the old advert shot next to the bed, conveniently located at the level of his eyes when he turns his head to the left. God, it still is so striking after all this time. The reality of Sherlock’s body is so much better, but there is something to be said for fantasies.

“Do you see how I strained to hold that pose?” Sherlock says, his voice going dark and sultry. “It took a long time to get the pose just right, the angles perfect with the light.” John looks at the picture again, letting Sherlock take control of whatever this is. Doesn’t matter, really, he’s pretty certain he’s going to like it.

“Did you fantasize about tying me up, John?” he purrs and John jumps, a little guilty, he admits. He had thought of it, and the image now rocketing through his mind was making his trousers uncomfortably tight. “It’s okay, truly. I think I’d like you to do that sometime, push my arms behind my back and tie my hands, let me suck you.”

John groans, feeling himself get fully hard and ready to move things forward. “Get over here before I drag you,” he growls.

Sherlock looks at him and bites his lip. “No,” he says. “I want to see you. I want to see what you did when you looked at my pictures all those years ago. I want to know all of your fantasies, every idea of sex with me you ever had. Please.”

John stares for a moment, trying to process what he’d just been asked. But as soon as he twigs to what Sherlock is requesting, he’s stripping his clothes and lying back on the bed, one leg bent and the other flat so that Sherlock got an unimpeded view of his cock. “Is this what you’d like to see?” he asks breathlessly. “You want to watch me touch myself, make myself come to thoughts of you?”

Sherlock nods, his eyes riveted to where John has started to slowly slide his fingers over his cock, just light, feathery touches that warm him slowly. “Tell me what you were thinking, John. Did you want to fuck me, all those years ago?  Push me into the mattress and hold me down, make me beg for your hand on my cock?”

John shudders, his hand gripping himself a little tighter, thinking about what it would be like to sink into  that gorgeous arse, to sprawl decadently across Sherlock’s long pale back, the one act they’d not yet indulged in. He can feel his desire starting to coalesce, focusing in to a warm, throbbing pulse in his groin.

“Wanted to have you,” he grits out as his hand speeds up, “Wanted you to call out my name. _Want_ you to call out my name.  Oh God, Sherlock look at me, look at how much I’m leaking.” He glances at Sherlock where he’s subsided in the chair, one finger across his mouth and his other hand pushing against the clear bulge in his jeans. His eyes are intense as he watches John’s movements, and John knows he’s just as affected by this as John himself is.

“You look beautiful, John,” Sherlock says, and his voice his low and a bit strained. “Your cock is perfect, so hard and thick. I love how it feels in my mouth, the taste of it. I can’t wait until it’s inside me.”

John can feel himself starting to unravel a bit, his thoughts becoming more and more scattered as he works himself ever closer. But there’s one thing he wants to tell Sherlock first, the fantasy he had more than any other.

“God yes, I want that, too. But more than that, I want you to fuck _me._ ” John hears Sherlock’s quick gasp in the corner. “I want you to fuck me, surround me. I want you to make me unable to think of anything else but you and how you’re making me feel. Oh Christ, I’m so close, tell me you want that, too.”

Sherlock leans forward eagerly. “Yes, oh yes.  Use my fingers to open you slowly while I’m kissing your mouth. I’d take my time with you, find all the right spots to make you arch from the bed, make you shiver. Then I’d slide into you and you’d be so open John, ready for me to push in all at once.”

“Oh God,” John whimpers. He can feel the flush spreading down his neck and chest,  his eyes screwing shut and his legs locking as he starts to fuck his own hand, listening to the dark honey of Sherlock’s voice, gone whispery and low.

“I’d be on top of you, your legs around my waist because I want to see you, want to see your face as you come. I want to feel it against my stomach.”

That does it. John feels himself unravel, his body shuddering into a hard, pulsing orgasm, semen covering his belly.

John cracks his eyes open to see Sherlock staring, his mouth open and breathing hard. John reaches out a hand in invitation. Sherlock dives out of the chair and across the bed to lay next to John in an instant, capturing his mouth and a hard, wet kiss.

“I’m leaving all of those pictures where they are. And I’m going to fuck you now,” he says, starting to strip off his clothes.

John smiles, the warm, sated haze giving way to a bright spark of interest.

He can’t wait to tell him about his public sex fantasy.

 _A/N: Beauty Shot - Generally a headshot, or close-up of a model, showing her/his true features. The makeup is very natural and light. The wardrobe is plain, and the background is simple and non-distractive._

**Author's Note:**

> Beta: The wonderful and patient Carolyn_Claire.
> 
> Gorgeous Fanart by Lydt: [at her Deviant Art account.](http://detectivelyd.tumblr.com/post/10712063503)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Safekeeping](https://archiveofourown.org/works/383774) by [Kate_Lear](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kate_Lear/pseuds/Kate_Lear)




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